“The original proxy stays in the vault.”

“I want the letter back,” I said.

Samantha handed it over.

“It’s yours.

The vault copy is certified.”

I refolded Lucas’s letter along its two soft creases and slid it into the overnight bag, beside Clara’s blanket, where Lucas’s folded cotton T-shirt was already waiting.

The locksmith’s drill went through the old deadbolt at eleven o’clock, and Clara slept against my shoulder through all of it.

Pruitt had a milk crate of hardware at his feet and a pencil behind his ear.